by Amy Raby
Drusus folded his arms.
“Go,” said Marius. “That’s an order.”
Drusus sniffed, giving his opinion of this plan with his customary eloquence, and left to fetch the sleeping draught.
The boy coughed suddenly, and his eyes drifted open. He stared woozily at Marius. “Who’re you?” he croaked.
“A Healer. Sit up.” He helped the boy struggle upright. “What’s your name?”
“Rory. Where am I?”
“At the surgery. You were sick.” The boy was still weak and a little woozy; otherwise he might object more to Marius’s hands on him. Marius was still applying his magic, testing here and there to see if there were any places in Rory’s body where the sickness still lurked. But he couldn’t find any. And the boy’s skin wasn’t hot anymore.
“Where’s my mom?”
“She’s run to get something. She’ll be back.”
Drusus arrived, wearing his disapproving look and carrying a cup of what looked like weak tea.
“Did you put sugar in it?” asked Marius.
Drusus shook his head.
Marius gestured, and Drusus, rolling his eyes, disappeared again.
“How are you feeling?” asked Marius.
Rory shrugged. “Cold.”
Marius gave him back his shirt, and Rory put it on. Then Marius wrapped him in a blanket.
“What was I sick with?” asked Rory.
“A fever,” said Marius. “Do you know anyone else who has a fever?”
Rory suddenly looked cagey, and shook his head.
Marius sighed inwardly. How old could this child be? He’d guess eight or nine, and already Rory knew not to say anything about his people. “It’s important, so think about it. If I know who’s sick, I can heal them.”
“I didn’t know I was sick.”
Looking into those wide, green eyes, Marius could almost believe him.
Drusus returned, carrying the sugared sleeping draught. Marius took it from him and offered it to Rory. “Drink this. It’s medicine.”
Rory took it and drank. He made a face, but drained the cup. Marius almost felt guilty.
Isolda burst into the room with Warder Nonian on her tail. Her eyes lit on Rory, sitting up and looking alert, and her worried face sagged in relief. She sent a grateful smile in Marius’s direction.
He remembered that smile well.
“You need an emergency warding?” asked Nonian.
“Yes, this boy. Also her.” Marius pointed at Isolda.
“Actually,” stammered Isolda, “we don’t have our papers on hand.”
Marius snorted. Of course they didn’t have papers on hand. “Payment in coin,” he told Nonian.
Isolda hung her head. “I don’t have that either. But I could run into town—”
“I’ll pay it,” said Marius.
Nonian nodded his acceptance. “Standard wards?” His fingers were already moving over Rory.
“Yes.” To the untrained eye, warding looked invisible. Fingers moved and nothing seemed to happen, yet in the spirit world, things of great importance happened. Marius had seen this for himself during his magic training, when he’d opened the Rift—or rather, it had been opened for him, by mages more experienced than he—and he’d looked into the spirit world. There he had seen the great unseen which lay beyond human perception. It was the world of the gods, and he would be awed by it to the end of his days.
Nonian turned to Isolda. “Shall I prevent conception?”
“Conception?” She seemed shocked by the question. “No...I mean...it doesn’t matter.”
“Are you married?” asked Nonian.
Marius fussed with Rory’s blanket, trying to look busy as he listened keenly to this conversation.
She hesitated before replying. “No.”
“If you are unmarried, I must prevent conception. That is the law.” Nonian’s fingers moved over Isolda.
Marius pulled a few quintetrals from his pocket to pay Nonian, and the Warder departed.
Rory yawned.
“How is he?” asked Isolda.
“Better,” said Marius. “But his body has played host to an evil spirit, and he needs rest. He’ll have to stay here overnight.”
Anxiety clouded her eyes. “Here in the surgery?”
“The villa is more comfortable. I’ve got a spare room. You could stay with him.”
The worry in her eyes did not abate, and he felt a little guilty for keeping her here unnecessarily. Why did it bother her to stay? Perhaps he could draw the reason out of her tomorrow. He felt that getting a good meal into these two, preferably several days’ worth of good meals, and some rest as well, would do them a world of good. And for public health reasons, he’d like to find out where the fever had come from. But he doubted he could contrive to keep either of them much past breakfast, if his experience four years ago was any guide.
Poor Rory was trying to keep his eyes open, but his lids were drooping. His body swayed on the cot.
“Drusus,” prompted Marius, and his bodyguard swept the boy into his arms. Marius opened the door for Isolda and gestured her through.
∞
Isolda rested her chin on her hands as she watched Rory eat breakfast. Her son was packing his cheeks like a squirrel storing nuts. Then the food disappeared down his gullet, to be replaced by more. The boy was completely recovered from his fever. She had never seen such an astonishing turnabout in fortune, from unconscious and burning up last night, to hale and upright and stuffing his face with fish cakes this morning. The cook Marius employed could hardly fry them quickly enough, but whenever Isolda admonished Rory to stop eating so much, Marius intervened and informed her that after a fever like the one he’d had, Rory needed to eat as part of his treatment.
Isolda knew better.
She had known few kind Kjallans, but Marius was one of them, and he was kind to a fault. He’d seen Rory’s thin body, and he meant to fatten him up. He was trying to do the same with her, shoving fish cakes in her direction—they were delicious, yes—but he could not employ the same excuse in her case. She had not been sick. And she knew this was charity.
She hated charity.
Marius had taken such scrupulous care of her four years ago, and she felt the debt. She had walked by his villa many a time since then, surreptitiously, and disregarding the very real danger—poor Tanla had been beaten half to death in this neighborhood last spring. But it gave her such a warm feeling in her breast to know that here lived a man who cared. Not about her specifically, but about people in general. And unlike many Kjallans, Marius thought of her and her fellow Sardossians as people rather than as sewer rats or piss-heads.
Because she had nothing of value to offer him, and she knew he was too decent a man to turn her away, she had resolved never again to come to his door. She was in his debt already, and to ask more would be to take advantage. She would not do that.
For years, she’d only been able to guess at the happenings in his life. Was he married? Did he have children? She saw no one except his man Drusus, who seemed to be a sort of high-class servant, but her visits were rare enough that she could easily have missed a wife.
She took notice when Marius bought the building next door and turned it into a surgery and dispensary. He’d become a licensed Healer! She could not think of a better profession for him. She’d felt vicariously proud of his accomplishment.
It was desperation that had, at last, driven her to his door. That fever, three gods. At supper Rory had been fine, a little less hungry than usual, but well enough. And then an hour later he’d been flat out on the floor and delirious, and she’d been afraid for his life. Nothing but Rory’s welfare would have led her to seek charity a second time—or to risk being attacked or deported—but here she was.
Now he was fine, and stuffing his face with fish cakes she’d never be able to pay for. Isolda turned away, wiping her eyes.
“Are you all right?” Marius asked, reaching for her arm.
“Fine,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just relieved.”
“Never you worry,” he said, giving her elbow a pat. “Fevers are dangerous but, in the right hands, easily cured. You were right to bring him here. I’d like to keep him here another day or two for safety’s sake.”
Isolda shook her head. “We cannot. He has to work today, and so do I.”
“That fever could come back,” warned Marius. “I need to keep an eye on him for a while.”
“Please can I stay?” asked Rory, who’d just drained an entire glass of lemonade. Since Rory worked at a fruit stand where expensive fruits such as lemons were sold, she had an idea of how many quintetrals had just gone down his gullet.
“He eats and drinks too much,” said Isolda.
“Not at all,” said Marius. “It’s important to eat and drink when you’ve had a fever. You should do the same. To protect yourself in case you’ve been exposed.”
She shook her head. That was nonsense; as of last night, she’d been warded, so she couldn’t catch Rory’s fever. Perhaps she could leave Rory here for the day while she went to work, but the idea bothered her. Rory was a bottomless pit of need and Marius an overly generous giver. Someone needed to stand between the two of them.
Marius rested his chin in his hand, as if puzzled. “Would you like to help out in the surgery while he rests?”
Isolda considered. She could supervise Rory if she did that, but she’d miss out on a day’s pay at the factory, and Rory’s pay as well. She supposed she could afford that.
“I could pay you,” added Marius.
Accept his charity and his money? Gods, no. But perhaps a compromise. “I will help you in the surgery today to help compensate for your treatment of Rory.”
“There’s no charge for Rory’s treatment,” said Marius. “But I accept.”
Chapter 8
Isolda hoped to be of use in the surgery to repay Marius for his kindness, but she soon realized that Marius needed little in the way of assistance. His first patient was a woman with stomach pain. He bade the woman lie on the cot, and he laid hands on her, presumably using his magic. Neither Isolda nor Drusus could be of any help. When Drusus offered to go to the dispensary to mix something up, Marius said he would do it, and he asked Isolda to go with him.
Once there, he asked her to hand him a stoppered vial.
She did so.
“How did you learn Kjallan?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I live in Kjall now, so I learned it.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but my impression is that your people don’t mingle much with my people. Therefore they don’t always learn the language.”
This felt accusatory, and she wasn’t sure what he was getting at, or how she was expected to respond. But there was truth in his assessment, and since Marius was a kind man, she gave him the benefit of the doubt. “It is true. Some of my people choose not to learn Kjallan. Also, it can be dangerous for us to mix with Kjallans.”
He measured liquid into the vial. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But you chose to learn the language anyway?”
She considered. “I am here for...what is the word? Forever. A lifetime. So I learned the language. And of course Rory knows it. He learned it faster than I did.”
“How old is Rory?”
“He turned eight this past winter.”
“A bit young to be working.” Marius tipped a bit of powder into the vial, capped it, and shook it gently.
“It is light work, arranging fruit on a stand and calling to customers.” Naive man. What did this wealthy young Kjallan know of a life like hers? She did what she had to do, and so did Rory. “An education is expensive.”
Marius’s brows rose. “Rory is being educated?”
“Not yet, but if we save our money...riftstones are expensive, but perhaps a warder’s stone might be within reach for Rory. He works hard.”
Marius leaned against the wooden counter. “It warms my heart to hear you speak of your son’s education. My mother never gave me an education despite it being within her means to do so.”
“If not your mother, then who?” Isolda was perplexed. “You’re a Healer, so somebody must have paid to educate you. You could not have paid your own way.”
“You’re right. Another family member stepped in,” said Marius. “It’s a complicated family situation, and I won’t bore you with it. I don’t mean to suggest that she didn’t care about me, because she did. It’s just that our situation was unusual.”
“You’re not boring me. How was your situation unusual?”
“Oh, in a variety of ways.”
He did not elaborate, so there it was, the icy Kjallan reproof. She deflated, wishing he trusted her enough to tell her his story. Clearly it was an interesting one. Now that she thought about it, his education had come later in life than most. And he dressed oddly, eschewing the fashionable syrtos in favor of a simple tunic and breeches. She liked his simple clothes; they were similar to what she’d been accustomed to in Sardos. Still, she knew that in Kjall, fashionable men wore the syrtos and servants the tunic and breeches. Despite his choice of clothes, Marius appeared to be wealthy, at least wealthy enough to live in that nice villa.
“We’d better get back,” said Marius, resting his hand on her shoulder as he passed.
The memory of his touch lingered.
As she followed him out of the dispensary, she realized that all she’d done in there was hand him a vial. Had he asked her to stay with him today because he truly wanted her help? Or did he just want to question her? It was starting to look like his true interest was in the latter, yet he would tell her little of himself. She sighed and settled into a chair.
Marius spoke to his patient, giving her the vial and some instructions for its use. She departed, looking much better, and the next patient came in, an adolescent boy with a lacerated foot. This one Marius was able to heal without needing anything from the dispensary, and both Isolda and Drusus sat idle.
The boy was dismissed, and Isolda saw a look of dismay on Marius’s face when the next patient entered the room. It was the pregnant woman who’d been in the waiting room last night. Drusus smiled and leaned back in his chair, clearly amused.
The first thing the woman did—after sending Isolda a dirty look—was open her dress and show Marius her breasts. She claimed to be worried about them, but it was plain to everyone that she merely wanted to show them off. They were glorious breasts, large to begin with and now darkened and engorged by pregnancy. Isolda was jealous of them; her own could not compare. But the display did not have the desired effect: Marius’s eyes were drawn to them, but he became embarrassed, and when she would not cover herself up, Isolda could see his tightened jaw, and she knew that he was angry. He conducted a cursory examination, and then ended the appointment and sent her away.
After she’d gone, Drusus glanced into the waiting room, declared it empty, and said to Marius, “Why don’t you just fuck her and have done with it?”
“I haven’t the slightest interest in that woman, and I can’t imagine why she thinks she wants me. She’s married.” His eyes fell on Isolda. “Three gods, Drusus, we’re not alone here. Apologize to the lady for your crudeness of speech.”
Drusus grinned. “I’m sure the lady’s heard worse, since she’s Sardossian. But I apologize.”
“You wouldn’t believe the things we hear,” said Isolda. Drusus was right, but she appreciated Marius treating her as if she were quality. It had been a long time since anybody had.
Chapter 9
Marius’s aggravation began to fade as he entered the villa and saw that his cook, Aurora, had managed to keep Rory occupied in an admirable way. The boy was crimping pastry with the back end of a knife, his face furrowed in the intense, single-minded concentration typical of young children. He didn’t even notice when they walked in.
“Rory’s helping me make tarts,” said Aurora.
“I hope he hasn’t been any trouble,” said Isolda.
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br /> “Oh, no, he’s an excellent helper.”
“Mom, I’m good at this,” said Rory, adding a final crimp to his tart.
The room smelled heavenly. Marius looked to the windowsill and saw that an earlier batch of tarts had already been baked.
“Carrot and potato,” said Aurora, pointing at the first row. “Chicken and mushroom. Apple. Careful, they’re hot.”
Marius offered Isolda first choice. When she hesitated, he realized that she was probably planning to eat sparingly out of some misplaced concern that she and her son were eating too much of his food. Therefore, he stepped in and loaded a plate for her, placing one of each variety of tart on it, and assembled identical plates for himself and Rory.
“I should warn you that I’ve had Aurora alter the recipe for these,” said Marius. “I haven’t a taste for most spices, so the flavor may be simpler than what you’re used to.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Isolda. “I’ve never gotten used to all the spice in Kjallan foods.”
Marius relaxed a little. He’d been criticized before for his lack of sophistication in his eating habits. It was nice to have a guest who didn’t think less of him for preferring the simple, earthy flavors he’d grown up with in Osler.
He offered a plate to Rory, but Rory waved the food away, saying, “I’m busy.” He was crimping another tart.
“Rory,” scolded Isolda.
“Never mind,” said Marius, ushering her out of the kitchen and into the dining room. “He can eat later.”
Drusus joined them at the table, with five tarts piled on his plate. Since Lucien had assigned him a bodyguard, Marius had never been truly alone. But Drusus, at least, wouldn’t stick his nose in the conversation. Aside from a little teasing where Lady Fabiola was concerned, Drusus minded his own business.
Lady Fabiola—what a shameful episode. Especially with Isolda right there in the room. “I’m sorry about that woman this morning.”
Isolda shrugged. “I have seen worse.”
“Have you?” Now he was curious. “Here, or in Sardos?”
